


Ficlets Part 2

by stackcats



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: M/M, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-20 09:30:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1505387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stackcats/pseuds/stackcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Second set of short fic. These are generally not long/good enough for their own posts. Mostly from Tumblr prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Adoration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anon prompted me for Malcolm/Jamie + adoration

With Jamie, it’s obvious; it’s in his eyes, wide and alive with fire whenever he looks at Malcolm, it’s in the way he copies him, his gestures, mirrors his stance or the way he sits, picks up his idioms and terrorises Westminster with them as if NoMFuP is a flag with Malcolm’s face on it, and every person Jamie defeats with it is conquered territory. He can put it into words, too, Jamie can; when they’re alone he’ll whisper it, when they’re in bed he’ll holler it, and afterwards he’ll show it with gentleness, always unexpected even after the hundredth time, the tiny touches, the breathy kisses against hot skin.

Malcolm sometimes wishes he could be so hot blooded in his private life, but he has his own ways. They might be subtle, but Jamie has the instinct for subtleties. He’s never missed a sign.

With Malcolm, it’s leaving the office on time for Jamie’s birthday, and complaining with a half-smirk, telling him how fucking lucky he is as he settles on the carpet on his knees. It’s letting Jamie keep a spare suit in his wardrobe, and ironing it when he accidentally knocks it off the hanger. It’s not throwing out the fucking Lucky Charms because the marshmallow bits will still be okay after the cereal’s gone soft and they’re the only bits Jamie eats anyway. And, later, when Malcolm sits beside a hospital bed, Jamie a respectful distance away, both of them tired, Malcolm red-eyed and a spider-thread away from breakdown, when the last thing his mum asks him is “are you happy? Is there someone to look after you?” it’s the moment Malcolm looks away from her, looks at Jamie, and manages one hoarse word in affirmation.

In the end, after everything has come apart and after they’ve put the pieces back together, carefully, a mosaic of their former life, in some ways broken, but in other ways better… in the end, it’s wordless, formless, almost tangible between them, and it’s impossible to separate it out, to point at one thing and say ‘see? he loves him’ because it’s _everything_.


	2. Bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luxurioussortofdevil prompted me for Malcolm x Jamie + bath

Jamie doesn’t like baths, but Malcolm does. Jamie doesn’t get it. He’s tried, but he just can’t see the point. It’s a massive waste of water in order to… what? Just lie there for twenty minutes? Can’t even have a wank cause then you’re splashing about in it. He’s tried *joining* Malcolm in the bath, too, but that was more awkward than sexy, with Jamie’s back up against the taps, water sloshing onto the floor, and both of them agreeing to abort the entire thing after Malcolm licked up by Jamie’s ear and found some soap he hadn’t rinsed off.

So Jamie sticks exclusively to showers, and, once a week, usually on a Saturday night when there’s a decent chance the phone won’t ring, Malcolm has his bath.

Jamie might not enjoy taking a bath himself, but he does very much approve of Malcolm’s bathtime. Not only does he get to watch whatever he wants on telly while Malcolm splooshes around in slightly scented water, but then there’s _after_.

When Malcolm emerges, smelling slightly of citrus or pomegranate or whateverthefuck, he drifts into the bedroom in only a dressing gown, and is, by Tucker standards, completely and utterly fucking _relaxed_.

Jamie’s not going to let an opportunity like that just doze off next to him.

He rests his head on Malcolm’s shoulder, and receives an indulgent smile and an arm around him. It has to be played carefully, nothing too blatant, best to start off with just a couple of fingertips brushing slowly, gently, almost absently across Malcolm’s chest where the dressing gown exposes skin. Let Malcolm enjoy the touch and slowly become more and more aware of it, then when he glances at Jamie, when he reciprocates the touch with a brush of toes against calf, Jamie will slide a hand inside and trace little patterns over ribs, ‘accidentally’ tweaking a nipple.

If Malcolm makes a funny little noise and melts back into the pillows, then Jamie’s hand ventures south, and he kisses the quickening pulse in Malcolm’s neck, and undoes the tie on the dressing-gown…

The thing about Malcolm when he’s relaxed is that he’s really, fantastically fucking _sexy_. He purrs and groans and gasps, reacting to Jamie’s slightest touch, and when Jamie wraps a hand around his hard-on he practically levitates off the bed.

Jamie gets two fingers inside him with minimal lube, seals his lips around the head of his cock, and makes him come in a few short but spectacular minutes. And then - _then_ , he’s really fucking relaxed.

He’s all heavy lidded eyes, and bruised, parted lips, legs spread and skin flushed, and as Jamie thrusts into him, Malcolm breathes his name, and fists his hair, and kisses his neck until he comes.

And they’ll lie there in a tangle of sheets and bathrobe and limbs until Malcolm falls asleep, and Jamie admits, quietly, that bathnight is perhaps his favourite night of the week.


	3. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> littlenem0 prompted "Malcolm/Jamie + Silence"

You’d think that Jamie is no good at silence, you’d think he’s the sort of person who lets every thought that enters his head out through his mouth so his skull doesn’t get gunked up with all the mad wank and bile he spews at people all day long.

You’d think that, unless you really knew him.

Malcolm knows him. He’s one of very few people who do.

He remembers the first time he caught Jamie quiet and pensive, decades ago, in a swirl of smoke and dust and hairspray in the back room of the bar. Alone, small and thin in leather and denim, leaning against the pool table almost as if he was waiting for someone. When he saw Malcolm watching him, he smiled weirdly (Malcolm himself half-punk, half-local paper rising star, trying to get people to call him _Mal_ and mostly failing, always making up excuses why he doesn’t want another drink or won’t try that pill because he can’t write when he’s smashed or hungover) and when Malcolm asked what he was doing, the answer was a small shrug as Jamie stomped across the floor, a kiss on the cheek as he brushed past, and the seed of an idea planted deep, ready to germinate in Malcolm’s head.

A few yater, in Malcolm’s flat, Jamie’s silence became so deafening that Malcolm had to find something to shout at him about, but in the end Malcolm took the job in London and Jamie left the girl he’d been about to propose to and followed him instead.

Malcolm is reminded of these moments years later, after the 1992 election, early April and slowly warming into summer. Jamie’s gone quiet again, sitting in the bay window of the house Malcolm half-regrets buying, weak sunlight on his face and shadows around his neck and shoulders. It’s been hard-going, the last couple of months, and right now the whole party is regrouping, taking a deep, steadying breath, getting ready for the next one. There’s a hundred thousand things in Malcolm’s head, ideas and speeches and policies and fragments of what will later become plans and schemes, all of it loud and jostling for space in his skull, but the longer he stands and looks at Jamie, the calmer it all becomes, fading away, not gone but damped by the quietness of a man who normally can’t stop his jaw flapping for five minutes at a time.

When he gets up, Malcolm almost bolts. They’ve said things, recently, raw and true things, Jamie after half a dozen drinks, Malcolm after one large, carefully timed one, nothing _quite_ like an admission, but close. Jamie’s silence, and the flick of his thick tongue across his lip, is far, far closer. Malcolm wants to say something, wants _him_ to say something, but there aren’t any words for this, and anyway, Jamie, in his silence, is right. There’s no time for this.

Jamie kisses him anyway, a hand in his hair, nails dragged over the back of his scalp, down his neck, then away. He leaves, then, goes home (to her - there’s always a _her_ ), and Malcolm is comforted by the silence he leaves behind, pregnant and patient, waiting for the day neither of them will have to share.

Over the years, he’ll see it many times, Jamie watchful and quiet, but the next time they share a silence is twenty years later, Malcolm with his bag of personal effects on his lap, Leyhill behind them, the motorway in front, and Jamie driving, eyes on the road, calm and quiet, and taking him home.


	4. Aging

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pintpotjudas asked for Malcolm/Jamie + aging

At twenty-five, Malcolm is a barely co-ordinated stick figure, a cross between a baby giraffe and a child on rollerskates, and Jamie hasn’t got the faintest idea why he finds that attractive, since his type, so far, has been petite girls with big tits, lots of hair, red lips, and a sort of sashaying, hip-swinging walk. But Jamie is nineteen and nothing surprises him about his libido. And anyway, it’s not about Malcolm’s demented run, it’s more to do with the ideas he comes out with at 2 a.m., it’s his long fingers and the way he thinks nothing of flicking them against Jamie’s knee to get his attention, it’s those eyes, green and sharp and impossible to read. Jamie’s told Malcolm he’s twenty-two in an effort to increase his chances of a fuck, but Malcolm’s convinced he’s more like sixteen and won’t touch him. Unless he’s straight, Jamie doesn’t know, but who the fuck is  _actually_  properly straight? Either way, he’ll win him around.

Father Larry at school warns Jamie that Malcolm is the worst kind of influence, which pretty much seals their fates. Next term, Jamie doesn’t go back.

At thirty-five, Malcolm has gained full manual control of himself. He’s got purpose, he has a trajectory, he no longer occasionally trips over his own feet. They’re in London, where Jamie knew nobody and had no connections except Malcolm, who has been here five minutes before wrapping himself around Westminster like a python, presenting the threat of a long, slow, terminal hug if it struggles against him. He seems taller, here. He’s certainly broader around the shoulders, fuller in the face, a little money in his pocket and a few good meals better off. There’s an aura of energy around him, infectious, radioactive, and it can keep both of them awake and moving for days on end.

In private, he’s intense. Jamie has never caught him asleep, but Malcolm insists he rests through the wee hours. He’s the one with the power, he’s in control, he fucks Jamie like they’ll never see each other again, and in the morning he’s up and dressed and blazing through the early editions before Jamie’s brushed his teeth.

At work, he’s driven by fury and righteousness, making allegiances, making enemies - someone spreads a rumour,  _cocaine, probably_ , but Jamie knows it isn’t true, and anyway, there’s no proof. Within a few months the accusation is forgotten, gutter politics that was never going to work, and the name Malcolm Tucker gains more weight, more influence. A footnote in his rise to power is Jamie, who’s bracing himself for thirty, wondering when he should tell Malcolm that he’s going to marry Jenny, a nurse, sweet and gentle and three months pregnant.

At forty-five, Malcolm has lost that bit of weight he managed to put on, lost it to fifteen-hour work days and a lack of appetite and the amphetamines Jamie carefully pretends not to know about. He’s gaunt, almost skeletal, still fuelled by fury, but the righteousness is allowed to fall by the wayside in the name of  _winning_ , and the means often, just between Malcolm and Jamie, justify the ends, and the ends are power and influence - which they will use, naturally, to do what is good and right.

Jamie’s eldest son is ten, his youngest daughter just eighteen months, the two girls in between four and six. Malcolm remembers all their birthdays, and he’s godfather to wee Jake. Jenny pushed for a while to get the girls baptised too, but it hasn’t happened. Jamie doesn’t have words to put around the reason, but something to do with his expression and his clenched jaw at the last parent evening led to Jenny’s suggestion they take Jake out of St Martens and send him to the local comprehensive next year.

Every few months, the excuses run dry, and Jamie finds himself in Malcolm’s bed. It’s still there, all of it, waiting for them, but Jamie finds more creases, more lines, more jutting bones, he finds that Malcolm prefers for him to take control, that Malcolm is more responsive to him, more submissive, almost as though he’s confessing something he never could before. Things take longer to happen, they both need a little more warming up, but they’ll burn, in the end, with the same intensity they ever did.

At fifty-five, Malcolm’s an ex-con and ex-political guru. Jamie’s an ex-husband, and a weekend dad to Tanya, Olivia, and Shona. Jake is the spitting image of him in looks and temper, and that’s why Jamie isn’t angry that his son hasn’t spoken to him since the divorce. It’s exactly what he did to his own Da, and he knows there’s fuck-all he can say to fix it, not yet, not without time.

There was a fight, a significant one, when Malcolm wanted to  _"go home"_  to Glasgow, Jamie not remotely torn between him and his children, between a city that hasn’t missed him and one with the girls that will. Doesn’t help that Jake’s gone there for uni, an estranged son in his father’s city, and Jamie has no intention of intruding on whatever it is he needs to find there. He’ll stay in London, and Malcolm can do whatever the fuck he wants tae do, and it’s of no concern  _(it’s very nearly the only thing that matters)_  to Jamie.

Malcolm stays.

He looks good. So good, some days, that Jamie doesn’t quite recognise him. He’s started eating recognisable meals again, and some mornings he sleeps in till seven, and he’s being sensible about work by  _not doing any_  until he’s had a chance to regroup, until they’re both settled into the new house, until they’ve figured out how far Jamie’s job, and their joint savings, and Malcolm’s investments, can take them, and therefore how much he reasonably ought to do. He’ll write, he tells Jamie as they sit at the breakfast bar, maybe he’ll even write fiction. Jamie suggests there are plenty of true stories he could write and sell as fiction. There’s life in Malcolm’s eyes, but there’s a slow and subtle ache growing in Jamie’s joints as he approaches fifty.

At sixty-five, Malcolm seems to have, finally, reached his prime, adding weight to the suggestion that there’s something weird and supernatural about him. He’s bright and alive, quick-witted, charismatic, and charming. He’s better in bed then he has been in decades, and in many ways Jamie feels as though Malcolm can really see him for the first time since they met. It’s a fucking  _relief_  that he apparently doesn’t hate what he can see.

He hates book signings, but he maintains a smile right through to the end, and the Waterstones staff all thank him for coming today, for being so patient with the queue that snaked right out the door and almost up the hill to Gregg’s. He likes writing, though. It suits him; an outlet for his anger and his ideas that does not involve interacting with morons, for the most part, and he’s unsurprisingly good at it.

It’s Jamie that ends up with regular doctor’s appointments, arthritis in his elbow, a murmur in his heart that needs an eye kept on it, pamphlets through the door with hideous blackened lungs on the cover and a phone number to call to talk about tobacco addiction. Shona, who still stays with her daddy at weekends and probably will until she’s married and her partner convinces her otherwise, persuades him to switch to patches and electronic fags, but it’s not the same and he feels like a twat sucking on the little plastic tube. Malcolm turns a blind eye to one ciggy with breakfast, and another before bed.

Jake, eventually, comes to stay. He’s a fan of Malcolm’s books, and, one night, he lets Jamie talk about what happened with him and their mum, and what happened with him and his Da too. There’s four of them that weekend, Sunday sees Shona inseperable from Jamie on the sofa, Malcolm bouncing ideas off a boy he almost recognises from a bar in Glasgow, too many years ago.

There’s an ending, but it hasn’t happened yet, and Jamie never was the sort to think too far ahead. He isn’t worried, never really has been, never had the time for it, and there’ll have to come a point where Malcolm starts to age like a normal person so he’ll save his efforts for then. He will, though, try a little harder with the patches, and he’ll eat his damn vegetables, and he’ll save the drinking for the weekend. For now, Malcolm looks set to carry on for another hundred years, and Jamie is more than happy to go along with that.

 


	5. Hatesex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm Tucker/Stewart Pearson hatesex

The 1997 defeat is not so much a defeat for Stewart as an opportunity.

It's nice to be listened to, for a change.

This mixer had been his idea, a few of their top bods, a few of ours, and a few carefully selected reporters. Champagne and plenty of food circulating the room, and a speech about how _Great Britain_ and _its people_ are their common priority and interest. A goodwill thing. A cautious effort towards gently rebranding the party in the eyes of the public, make everyone look a bit more... _human_. Though Stewart is the first to admit that could be tricky with a lot of the old guard.

Smarming up the entire joint is Steve Fleming, flashing his disgusting, smug grin for the cameras, making sure everybody knows just how magic he is. And it is magic, if you don't know how it's done, but Stewart knows. He's greeted the man and he shook his hand for the cameras, but he's just not _interested_.

In Steve's shadow is someone much more interesting. Holding, Stewart has noticed from afar, a barely metaphorical blade ready to stab dear old Steve in the back given half a chance. Stewart is _very_ interested in this figure.

He drifts over.

"It's MacAl Capone! Enjoying yourself, are you?"

Malcolm Tucker flashes him a fucking _charmer_ of a smile. "Nice shindig, Stewart, but, ah, I heard there'd be strippers and midgets. And midget strippers on the flying trapeze, distributing cocaine in tiny faberge eggs. Isn't that what your lot are into?"

"We believe that individuals with a vertical disadvantage no longer _appreciate_ the term 'midgets', Malcolm, let's have a little sensitivity, yeah?"

"Oh, feeling sensitive, are we?" Malcolm's grin broadens, and he gives Stewart a look, from head to toe, that makes something in the base of Stewart's spine tingle uncomfortably. "Yeah, defeat'll do that to yeh."

"No, it's just that not all midgets are circus performers, and we shouldn't be generalising if we, as a nation, are going to lead the world into the twenty-first century."

"Ah." Tucker tilts his (barely touched) champagne glass at him. "That's your grand plan, is it? You'll be running as the Touchy-Feely party next time, is that it?"

Everything about the man is aggressive, from his tone to his stance, to the way he repositions himself to exclude one of his own party members who tries to join the conversation. He's intense and focussed, and Stewart was right, he's much more interesting than the man who (if Stewart's calculations are, as usual, correct) is shortly to become his predecessor as head of communications.

The high, sharp cheekbones, the long fingers, and the slim hips are pretty interesting, too, it has to be noted - though Malcolm immediately catches him looking, and barks out something resembling a laugh, and moves in closer. Stewart wonders what that looks like from the outside.

"No, this really is a great party," Malcolm purrs, and takes a sip of champagne, the first Stewart has noticed all evening. "I'm learning a lot."

Stewart isn't a fool, he knows when to extract himself from a disadvantageous situation, so he stays and talks until Malcolm has half-depleted his champagne, then takes his glass, swaps it for a fresh one, forces a few more pleasantries, and removes himself to the opposite side of the room.

***

It's a couple of hours later, and Stewart's a few glasses more mellow, when it's generally agreed that if things get any messier the evening's pretence at civility will fall apart entirely. There's already been a couple of near-scuffles, one in the ladies' loo and one up near the bar, and it was pure luck in the latter case that the cameras were pointed in another direction (on JB again - Stewart's been keeping a very close eye on him too, and it _would_ be nice to have a party leader you can bear to look at for more than twelve seconds without wanting to rub lemons in your eyes, it's been a while...)

He's one of the last out, making sure nobody tries to drive who doesn't ought to, checking up with the reporters, and obviously thanking the catering staff. Pretty much all government bods have gone, which is why he's surprised to find Tucker hanging around the grounds. He's wandering between the elm trees out beyond he car park, hands in his coat pockets, looking up into the branches as if he thinks there might be something unusual up there. Maybe a midget stripper with some leftover coke?

Stewart ambles across the gravel towards him. Malcolm obviously hears him coming, but pretends not to.

He really is a strange looking man, all lines and angles, nothing soft about him, nothing wasteful. He looks like one of those sleek racing cars, all acceleration and no comfort; though Stewart can't really name any car brands, and he's against excessive use of oil and petrol, pollution being bad for the planet's chakras, he wouldn't mind seeing exactly how far and fast Tucker is going to go.

Politically speaking, of course.

"Owls," says Tucker, pointing up at the trees. "They've got a wee nest, see?"

Stewart can't see anything except leaves and branches.

"Don't you have to be back in your coffin before sunrise?"

Tucker grins again, and says, "Not before I've fed."

Stewart supposes he walked into that one.

"I'm really very interested in owls,"

"Are you, Malcolm? That is fascina-"

"Yeah, yeah. That's how I persuaded the lovely lass with the camera to lend it to me overnight.

Stewart, on cue, notices the video camera sitting on a treestump behind Tucker. It's on, and recording.

"Ornithology aside, what are you playing at, Malcolm?"

"Well." A shrug that seems to involve the man's entire body. "I don't like you, and I don't expect you to like me, but that doesn't necessarily matter, does it? I thought it would be useful for there to be a self-destruct button. A deterrent, and a tool. If you ever fancy sacrificing your own career to fuck mine. And vice-versa, obviously."

In full view of the camera, Malcolm puts a hand on Stewart's chest and steers him, with surprising strength, back up against the tree. It's a massive invasion of personal space, but that doesn't seem to matter as much as it ought to, and nor does the breath on his neck, or the fingers on his inseam, and obviously this is a very, very bad idea, but the closer and closer Malcolm gets, the less relevant that seems to become.

Surprisingly, Malcolm kisses him, hard and rough with tongue and teeth. That becomes less surprising as Malcolm's oral fixation becomes more apparent, and seems like a footnote in the compendium of surprising things when Malcolm gets down on his knees on the damp grass.

It's the best blowjob Stewart's ever had. Back at school, he was generally the one _giving_ them, but lately he's had more diverse experiences, and this one tops the lot. Malcolm doesn't object to a hand in his hair, though he growls a bit when Stewart tries to make him move faster, and while those teeth are down _there_ , he's not going to push his luck. He does, however, swallow everything without so much as a cough.

Stewart's still recovering, still catching his breath and figuring out what level of reality he's currently on, when Malcolm grabs him, turns him, and shoves him face-first at the tree. He gets his hands out just in time to prevent his face colliding with rough bark.

The only words he can get out are _Malcolm_ and _condom_ , but Malcolm tells him not to be such a fucking moron, and already has one half-on. 

He fucks like he kisses, just as Stewart expected, fast and hard, no frills, nothing to spare, but he's unexpectedly quiet, and finishes with barely a grunt before pulling out, and pushing himself away from Stewart.

Reality is very much back in full force. The reality in which his opposite number just made a sex tape of them. Politically speaking it's not a horrible idea, if they both get a copy, neither can entirely fuck the other without fucking himself, but if one day they _need it_...

Malcolm's stretching out his back and yawning as if he's just had a big, satisfying meal. Stewart pulls himself together, does his belt up, straightens his shirt, but takes off his tie. He uses it to flick Malcolm, and is rewarded with a cheeky grin.

"So, we both get a copy, yeah?"

Malcolm gives him a big-eyed, innocent look. "Of what?"

"What do you mean - the tape, obviously! I know a guy, very discreet, he can make a second one without -"

Malcolm laughs as if he's just caught up with a very funny joke. "Fucking _wow_ ," he says, grinning like a seasnake. "You lot. You're hilarious. You're pure, dead, fucking _brilliant_ , the lot of you. Here."

Malcolm trots over to the camera, picks it up, and hands it straight to Stewart. "All yours, darlin'. This _has_ been educational. Nighty-night."

He's gone in a swirl of his black coat, and Stewart stands there with the camera in his hands. As soon as he's sure he's alone, he opens up the tape compartment, which is empty.

Above him, in the elm tree, something hoots softly.


	6. Meeting Mums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scottishwolves asked: "Hello:) If you're still doing prompts how about either Malcolm or Jamie meeting the other's mum? Or if you've seen luluxa's latest masterpiece, can that be a prompt?"
> 
> I did both.
> 
> The artwork in question is here: http://luluxa.tumblr.com/post/82336353651/scottishwolves-ive-also-promised-a-kiss-havent

It’s completely spontaneous; for once, there’s no grand plan, no scheme, he’s not trying to achieve something on the fly. He simply decides in the moment that he’s doing it, and the consequences can wedge the nearest pineapple up their collective and metaphorical arse.

Jamie will be away for the entire week. It is, Malcolm realised with some alarm, the longest they’ll have been apart in almost ten years. And because he can’t process on an intellectual level the cocktail of feelings this chucks together, shakes vigorously, and serves over the ice that is usually his mind on a workday, he turns and follows Jamie out the front door, where he taps him on the shoulder before he gets into his taxi, moves in close, cups the back of Jamie’s neck with one hand, and kisses him.

There’s no hesitation when Jamie kisses him back, but Jamie’s still in work-mode too, which is why, instead of his usual response to a kiss from Malcolm (shove tongue down throat, attempt to rip shirt off without undoing buttons, wrap legs around hips and demonstrate the fucking  _instant_  hard-on Malcolm takes the credit for giving him), he strokes one hand down his chest, gives a little, teasing flick of tongue, and pulls back.

There’s press - there’s  _always_  fucking press - a reporter with a cameraman, but Malcolm moves so Jamie is between him and the taxi, so he can get in and escape quickly, but before he lets him go, he murmurs,  _miss you, cunt_  against Jamie’s ear.

Jamie flashes a brilliant grin which the camera will no doubt pick up. “Call me tonight. Be wearing nothing so I don’t have tae fuckin’ ask.”

Malcolm, operating now mostly on adrenaline, half-hopes the circling hawks got that.

Jamie gives his tie a quick tweak, then he’s ducking into the cab and they’re pulling away.

Malcolm tells the cameraman he’s going to take his tripod, wedge it up his nose, and happyslap him until it punctures his frontal lobe and leaves him unable to remember his own mammy’s name, then trots back up the steps and into number 10 as if he’s done nothing more interesting than wave Jamie off.

***

 

It’s pure co-incidence that she spots him two days later.

Chirsty Tucker might be pushing eighty, but she still likes to take the underground into town and potter around the shops, and have coffee, and pick up some meat and veg from Tesco Metro, and that’s where she spots him deliberating between one packaged sandwich or another.

She hesitates with a punnet of strawberries in one hand, and takes a fragment of a second to think. It’s definitely him, she recognises him from the paper, the tussled hair, the big blue eyes, the handsome jawline and dark stubble. Nice looking young man, iffy reputation according to Margaret next door, but he’d have to have character to put up with her Malcolm.

Chirsty hasn’t heard from her son in a long time, which isn’t unusual. He doesn’t always answer his personal phone, and she doesn’t like to call him at work (hough she does enjoy a nice chat with young Sam). She doesn’t expect a busy man to have time to chat to his mother at any given hour, but she would have liked to speak to him about  _this_.

She hesitates only a moment longer than her son did, before following him around the corner where he’s now browsing disgusting, sugary, carbonated drinks. She taps him on the shoulder with the handle of her walking stick.

"Hello, young man. Jamie, isn’t it?"

He rounds on her, mouth open to say something he apparently changes his mind about when he realises she’s just a harmless little old lady. He blinks in confusion. “Do I know you?”

"No, dear, but you do know my son, and I’d like you to tell him to bloody well call his mother."

He stares at her, and she can see him putting the pieces together. After all, her boy did inherit her fine bone-structure, her nose, her eyes... Hesitantly, his tone suddenly very polite, he ventures, “…Mrs Tucker? I’m guessing you’ve seen the papers…?”

"That’s right, dear. Lovely photo of both of you, I’m having it done up proper and framed, and our Megan will put a nail up in the hallway for it to go up."

He still looks like he might drop his sandwich and run, so she pats him on the arm. “You just make sure and tell him to phone me.”

"Yes, ma’am."

"And you’ll both come up for Easter."

"I’ll ask Mal-"

"No, dear, you have to  _tell_  him. That boy needs telling. Only way to handle him, believe me. Here’s my phone number -” She scribbles on a scrap of receipt with the pen she keeps in her coat pocket - “you call me any time, dear, all right?”

"Yes, ma’am."

She gives him another friendly pat on the arm, and heads off to find that nice ham with the bready bits around the edge, leaving him dazed and blinking in the middle of the fridge section of Tesco.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nikkifinn prompted for Malcolm x Jamie + separation. This works as a sequel to Chapter 6.

Day One - Monday

Jamie’s gone for the entire week, from Monday lunchtime until Sunday night. He’s using some of his holiday leave to go and see his brother’s newborn baby, back up near Glasgow, but outside the city in the countryside, where Malcolm can’t begin to imagine anyone sane being able to live.

This is, obviously, and despite being proof that Jamie has a life outside of _Malcolm_ and _work_ , completely, utterly, and perfectly fine.

Malcolm’s little performance earlier, kissing Jamie in front of ten Downing Street and an unsuspecting BBC News reporter, naturally has nothing to do with the above fact, Malcolm _not remotely_ being the sort of person to try and make everything all about him. His phone’s been ringing all day, and he’s had Sam and Frankie filtering the calls, putting through genuine work-related calls, and telling anyone who wants a fucking soundbite where to sling it. He’s still got call divert active on his mobile, with only recognised numbers coming through. For the most part, the actual professionals he works with have been trained and conditioned to have absolutely no impulse whatsoever to ask him about today’s revelation, with a couple of exceptions - one or two ministers and advisors who’ve recently been savaged by Jamie have called to ask if he’s insane, and there was a horrible conversation with that wee twat from the Home Office who stuck his head, blinking and dazed, out of the closet just before Christmas. Malcolm genuinely tried to be nice to him for about a minute before calling it quits and hanging up.

Jamie has not called.

Jamie told _Malcolm_ to call, but that’s not the point.

He holds out for as long as possible, which isn’t hard because he’s busy (these Monster Munch aren’t going to eat themselves), but when eleven o’clock rolls round, Malcolm picks up his phone, ignores the five hundred text messages from reporters and agents, and phones Jamie.

Malcolm sits there with the phone in one hand, a fresh packet of crisps in the other, and an expression of increasing irritation on his face, but eventually someone does answer, and their name probably is MacDonald, though it’s definitely not the one Malcolm was aiming for.

Malcolm knows this because Jamie, even when drunk, does not answer his phone with _“Heeeeeeeeeeey daaaaarrrrrrrling, how’s it going, sexy?”_

Malcolm hangs up, throws his phone at the sofa, and takes himself to bed.

Day 2 - Tuesday

There’s apparently little enough happening in the world that Malcolm is on three front pages on Tuesday morning. The best headline is probably _Mal-Coming Out_ , which is a good illustration of the standards Malcolm has to work with.

There’s a meeting with the PM, of course, in which the subject of sacking Jamie is carefully placed on the table, and just as carefully used as a coaster and graced with about as much attention and dignity. After that, and once Malcolm’s made it apparent just how intent he is on ignoring the questions and the attention, everyone who counts as a person in Malcolm’s book begins to lose interest - or, at any rate, begins to realise exactly how dangerous it could be to question Malcolm about his personal life.

Around three in the afternoon, an email comes through from Jamie, which means (wee luddite that he is) that his head is still too sore for a phone conversation. Jamie, seasoned drinker and nigh-immune to hangovers, must have been still going strong as dawn came on, if Malcolm’s estimation is worth anything (it is). Malcolm’s impressed - in his family, they welcome new babies with a card and a cake. Jamie’s family is always on the look out for an excuse to get blind drunk and fall into things.

Jamie writes:

_Hi Malc,_  
Great night last night, loads of other folk up here to visit, good to see everyone again, wish you were here but youd hate it, f. cold, f. rainy, no 4G. Fmily all good, want to meet you even after I explained that really you are awful just like in the papers, yes even worse than uncle roddy. maybe you can get a flight friday night and come back with me sunday. promised id’ ask.  
sorry for not calling last night or tonight, i am going to bed now and then we are going out again.  
baby jess is great but at that boring stage where their not even funny yet.  
miss you, will think about you when i have a wank  
J

Malcolm replies simply with _can’t get away Friday, and goes to find somebody to shout at._

Day Three - Wednesday

Malcolm has breakfast, alone, at the breakfast bar in his kitchen and, in a mood which he is willing to admit is somewhat melodramatic but will deny to the death that any _loneliness_ is involved, wonders how much he’d really care if Jamie was dead. He tricks himself into thinking he’d just get on with a quiet life without him, and (as he occasionally considers doing anyway) schedule regular appointments with a rentboy in the hopes of a decent blowjob for the first time in years. He considers sending that as a soundbite to the _News of the World_ , who are still calling the office and challenging Sam’s capacity for polite-but-firm excuses.

The house is ridiculously quiet. Malcolm leaves for work half an hour early, and finishes his fruit salad in the car.

There’s something festering in the Health Department, a boil of incompetence that has apparently been forming for some time, but now Malcolm can see it, and it needs to be lanced before any other bugger notices. Unfortunately, there’s also been a six cunt pile-up over at Transport, errors being blamed on computers even though Malcolm can see human fingerprints all over them.

He decides he’d prefer Jamie not to be dead after all (or, not to get too sentimental, he’d prefer that _or_ the technology to clone himself).

The press gets hold of the Transport thing, it’s that ginger-haired goat-fucker from the _Mail_ , so Malcolm heads Health-wards, calls Adam Kenyon from the car, and gives him an exclusive, two paragraphs on how Jamie is basically his right arm and absolutely should not be dismissed from the office unless you want the government to gracelessly disintegrate like a cowpat in the rain, how they met in church ( _are you fucking kidding me?_ \- Kenyon) in the eighties, and how everyone can mind their own fucking business now they’ve been thrown a tidbit and had their questions answered.

When he gets back to Downing Street, Sam has a message from Jamie.

"He said you’re to call your mother."

"What?"

Sam gives a bemused shrug, picks up some filing, and vanishes to wherever it is she goes when she’s doing the filing (Malcolm makes a point of not knowing).

Malcolm briefly considers calling his mum, but some gimp from the _Mail_ phones and asks, nervously, for a photo, so he sends the one of him and Jamie sitting on a twisted tree in a graveyard after a friend’s funeral in 1990, then his phone beeps and he’s flying down to DoSa to knock some fucking heads together.

He gets home around eight, but is out again at nine thirty when he gets a teary phonecall from a Secretary of State who has just discovered she’s pregnant, at forty-six and despite her husband being abroad for the last three months. He misses Jamie’s call.

Day Four - Thursday

Thursday starts off chaotic, but as the day draws on, Malcolm becomes optimistic. There’s a text message from Jamie - _Call tonight_ \- and the anticipation leads to a great deal of sitting down behind a desk, and carrying things in front of him.

He gets home around 8.30, changes out of his work clothes, drops himself on the sofa with a can of Red Bull, and uses the house phone to call Jamie’s mobile.

It rings for a long time.

Finally, Jamie answers.

"Hey, Malc," he says, sounding shifty.

"Hey your own self. This is fucking over-due. Don’t know how the fuck you’ve been coping, you wee spunk-demon, but you’d better have a dildo handy because I’m going to phone-fuck you so hard BT customers up and down the country will have spontaneous orgasms -"

"Malc…"

"What?"

Malcolm has slowly become aware of other voices, in the background. High-pitched ones. And the sounds of running, thudding feet on bare wooden floor.

"This isnae gonna work tonight, I ended up with all the kids overn - hang on a moment." There’s a little _thunk_ as Jamie drops the phone, and then the faint sounds of a distant conversation between Jamie and what sounds like several small girls and one or two small boys, and goes something like…

_Hayley, take your brother and give him a bath, like yer dad said - no don’t fucking argue just-_

_Uncle Jamie said a bad word!_

_Uncle Jaaaaaamiiiiiieeeeee_

_Shush your noise. I’ll say more bad words in a minute -_

_Uncle JAAAAAmieeeeeeee_

_Give your brother a bath_

_I wanna watch telly_

_You can do that af-_

_UNCLE JAAAAAMIIIIIIIEEEEEE_

_What IS IT, Kira?_

_I’ve lost my socks_

_Can you just sit and play your gameboy quietly for ten minutes_

_It’s not a gameboy it’s a Nintendo 3DS_

_Well just go and play it_

_It needs charged_

_Put it on charge then -_

_UNCLE JAMIE UNCLE JAMIE OSCAR LOCKED HIMSELF IN THE BATHROOM AND I CANNA OPEN IT HE’S TRAPPED-_

_It’s alright, you can open the lock with a knife, here, look -_

_Who’s Uncle Jamie talking to on the phone?_

_(A slightly aloof, older girl’s voice)His boyfriend._

_Uncle Jamie doesn’t have a boyfriend, stupid -_

_Yes he DOES, dumbbum, my mum said -_

_Your mum disnae know anything -_

_UNCLE JAMIE TELL HER I’M RIGHT_

_He’s busy getting Oscar out, I’ll prove it…_

The slightly aloof voice is suddenly a lot closer and more immediate as the girl, a young teen by the sound of it, picks up the phone and says, “Hello, this is Jasmine speaking, are you Uncle Jamie’s boyfriend or not?”

Malcolm takes the receiver away from his ear and gives it a slightly accusing look. The voice starts saying _helloooo?_ until he’s forced to answer that rather alarming question.

"I suppose so," he says.

There’s another, louder thud as the phone is dropped, and the aloof voice becomes a know-it-all voice off in the distance again.

_IT IS UNCLE JAMIE’S BOYFRIEND, IT IS, I TOLD YOU SO_

_What’re you doing with my phone yeh wee brat - here, take Oscar, prop the door open and just fuckin’ get him bathed, okay? Kira - sit down, you can play with Jasmine’s laptop - yes she can because I said so, GIVE ME THE PHONE_ Hey, Malc, sorry about that…”

Malcolm’s libido has abandoned him entirely, and possibly permanently. “How the fuck did that happen?”

"The kids? Och, well, It’s the new baby and visitors all at once, they’re all over-excited, and as soon as you agree to take one or two for the night, the whole lot want to come along too…"

"How many?"

"Uh… eight."

"Eight? You’re in charge of eight children? Alone?"

"Kids are easy. But look, I’ve got to have a couple of them on the floor in my room tonight so…"

"Tomorrow."

"Can ye get away for lunch?"

"I don’t want a fucking phone-quicky. Anyway, I’m busy tonight too, so…"

"Okay. Listen, Malc, I love you."

Neither of them has really said that before, except drunk or in bed, where it doesn’t entirely count and can be translated to ‘I love that thing you’re doing to me right now’. Malcolm goes into a sort of shock, staring at the far wall, listening to a faint voice in the background singing _uncle Jamie and the phone man sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g…_

"Malc?"

He blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, you too.”

"Yeah?"

_first comes love, then comes - oi that’s my DS DON’T TOUCH IT’S CHARGIN’_

"Course. Good night, and good luck, eh?"

"Night."

Then the phoneline goes dead, and Malcolm is left with the horrible feeling he didn’t quite get that right.

Day Five - Friday

Malcolm sleeps even worse than usual on Thursday night, wakes up long before dawn, and sits in his kitchen, staring into his yoghurt, which he dumped into the bowl and had sat down before realising that he’d poured himself the topping without the muesli. He’s now pretending that a bowl of yoghurt is exactly what he intended to have for breakfast, even though there’s no one else here to judge.

He feels a little strange, like he’s drifting out to sea, the current tugging him gently but irresistibly away from shore. He feels out of his depth, though he doesn’t know what in, or why, so he tries to think about something else.

That doesn’t work at all, because he just ends up thinking about sex, and the fact that he hasn’t had any for about a week, and the fact that it’s going to be two and a half days until Jamie comes home, and even then…

Malcolm shuts his eyes, takes a deep breath, and tries to pretend that he signed off with something smooth and non-moronic on the phone last night. But he’s never been smooth with Jamie, not even remotely. It’s coming up twenty-five years to the day since he had a slimmer, fluffier Jamie beneath him for the first time, since the scrawny lad’s breathy admission, _I’ve never done this before_ , and since Malcolm laughed right back in his face and called him a liar. It was about a fortnight, which felt more like a fucking eternity, before he found himself in that position again, and able to get it _right_ that time.

Fuck it, he decides, and goes into work early again.

He hates doing it, but if you don’t get it out of the way, these things have a habit of blowing up on you, so when Sam brings his tea, he touches her hand, and she waits, looking at him expectantly.

"If you told a man you loved him, and he sort of dithered and said ‘yeah, you too’, would that be bad?"

"Yes."

"Fucking _fuck it!_ I wasn’t expecting it! How was I supposed to - he could have fucking warned me he was going to fucking say that!”

Sam looks nervous. Malcolm slumps back in his chair and glares at the computer screen. Sam recognises an oncoming sulk.

"We could send him something?" she suggests.

"Like what?"

That’s a good question. Sam shrugs. Any other boss, she’d recommend flowers, chocolates, dinner reservations, but this situation is not exactly a common one. Jamie is, thankfully, unique.

"Oh," she says, "you know Kevin Stewartson -"

"That advisor Jamie hates over at the Home Office?"

"That’s him. He was quoted by the _Mirror_ this morning-“

"That’s right, hey that’s not bad - bit of pressure on the Minister, that’ll be therapeutic for me, get young Kevin kicked out on his arse, Jamie’ll like that, sure… redirect press attention down a dead-end, that’s always fun too."

Sam hurries off to get a car sorted, and away Malcolm goes.

The sacking of Kevin Stewartson (and associated hilarious speculation) makes the six o’clock news, and Jamie calls at six-fifteen, but gets Sam because Malcolm’s tangled up in the reorganisation of an office that just lost key personnel.

Malcolm gets home at nine forty-five, crashes on the sofa without so much as thinking about dinner, and, after a half-arsed attempt at reaching the TV remote without getting up, lies there in silence.

The clock ticks steady as ever, but time seems to ease to a crawl. An unfamiliar, creeping, unpleasant sensation begins somewhere in Malcolm’s hindbrain, making him feel uneasy, as though he’s missed or forgotten someth - no, not quite… more like…

Fuck it. He fishes his mobile out of his pocket, and finds three missed-calls from Jamie. That’s when he realises the room is pitch-black, there’s no sounds from outside, and the big, helpful numbers on the phone read 03.47. He sits up, blinking, trying to remember falling asleep, but… fuck, he must have been _tired_.

He tries calling, despite the time, and after a few rings Jamie answers.

"Kevin," he says, "good fucking riddance."

Malcolm, brain filled with cotton wool, says, “I love you too.”

"Yeah, yeah. Twat. It’s four in the morning."

"Kids around?"

"No."

"Alone?"

Malcolm can hear the smirk. “What would you do if I wasn’t?”

"I’d have to start regularly giving blood to help make up for the deficit caused in the aftermath."

"Your voice goes all rough when you’re jealous, Malc. You in bed?"

"Uh." Malcolm looks down. He’s still wearing his coat and shoes. "No. Sofa."

"Remember last time we fucked on the sofa?"

Malcolm smiles as he uses his left foot to kick off his right shoe. Couple of Sundays ago, a rare lazy weekend, Jamie all relaxed and filled up with a fried breakfast, the two of them just slumped together on the sofa, hands beginning to wander, mouths following, slow and easy, building up to a brief spell of wrestling like teenagers, Jamie trying to bite, Malcolm pretending he didn’t want him to… Malcolm always enjoys it most when Jamie’s at ease enough to tolerate extended foreplay. They seldom have the time to just touch each other without rushing it straight to the climax out of desperation and exhaustion… Malcolm feels himself stir at the memory. He shrugs out of his coat, slides a hand down his stomach, over the cool material of his shirt.

"That," he says into the phone, "was one of the most unforgettable shags of my life, course I fucking remember."

"You always love it that way, must be cause you’re a fucking pansy."

"Didn’t hear you complaining."

"Face down, arse up. Classy, Malc -"

"What about before that, you were practically cuddling me - kissing my neck - spooning, you wee poof-"

“‘Cause I know what gets you going. Fuck… touch yourself.”

"I am."

"Over your clothes?"

Malcolm squeezes himself. “Yeah. Are you?”

"Fell asleep with my cock in my hand, haven’t let go."

"Thinking of me?"

"Your fucking _mouth_. Christ-“

"Are you hard? Jamie?"

"Like a fucking truncheon, you?"

"It’s fucking four in the fucking morning, give me a chance…"

"If I want to get off quick, I always think about you sucking me off. That time at work-"

"Christ… We were so fucking stupid, anyone could’ve…"

"Never come so hard. Just the thought of your stupid mouth, that fucking thing you do with your tongue where you _pulse_ it, Malc, shit… Wish you were here now, I’d have you on your fucking knees…”

Malcolm should probably have checked the curtains were closed, but he doesn’t give a shit, sprawled with his mouth open, licking his lips, he drops one foot to the floor, presses the other knee to the back of the sofa, and flicks open his trousers.

"Not getting undressed," he tells Jamie.

"But you’ve unzipped- Imagine it’s me, Malc, it’s my hand, stroking you, getting faster, I’m rubbing your balls cause that always makes you fucking squeal-"

Malcolm does it, his fingers moving just like Jamie’s do, and Jamie’s voice carries on in his ear, a surprisingly accurate commentary of the way his own hands tend to move across Malcolm’s body. Normally, this tired at this time of the morning, he’d not even bother trying, but Jamie _does_ fucking know what gets him going, and the anticipation for this hasn’t dissipated at all. Then there’s Jamie’s voice, one of the things that first made Malcolm pay attention to him, the weight of it, always heavy with _something_ , whether it’s anger or lust or defiance, always best when when he’s talking to Malcolm, even better when it’s like this, when he’s guiding Malcolm through a long-distance handjob, muttering little curses in between that betray just how aroused Jamie is at the other end of the line.

"Got any lube there?" Jamie asks.

"No."

"Just have to do the best you can without it, then. Use your fingers, but make sure it’s my cock you’re thinking about."

Malcolm puts Jamie on speakerphone, lifts himself, shoves his trousers down as far as they’ll go, and moves both hands back down, one continuing to stroke, the other moving lower, and as Jamie babbles on, he rubs in a gentle motion, massaging, a little precum on his fingers helping keep it smooth.

Malcolm’s in a reminiscent mood tonight.

"Remember when I showed you how to do this?" He says into the phone, interrupting Jamie’s latest string of creative obscenities. "You didn’t believe it could feel good."

"Aye, you proved me _very _fucking wrong.”__

"It was a new experience for me too. Never gave a priest a rimming before."

"I was never actually a - Christ, Malc, tell me you’re close."

"I want to hear you come first, darlin’."

If a term of endearment can’t get what Malcolm wants from Jamie, nothing will. He’s a lot quieter and more muffled than usual, since he’s staying in a relative’s house, but Malcolm can hear the quick movements of his hand, skin on skin, the sheets rustling, and then there’s the familiar sounds - though a lot more subdued, and apparently through gritted teeth - of Jamie bringing himself to orgasm.

Malcolm curses under his breath, hips bucking up into one hand, fingers pushing in - not far, but far enough to bring to mind Jamie’s thick cock, and he closes his eyes as he thinks of Jamie coming inside him, rocking and shuddering against him, hot, and wild, and beautiful. He makes sure he’s _louder_ than usual, with only Jamie to hear, gasping and panting and moaning and calling the wee bastard’s name as he spills over his hand, over his shirt and the exposed skin of his belly.

And then he collapses back against the sofa, gasping for breath, wiping his hand against his shirt because fuck it, whatever.

"Fuck, Malc," Jamie breathes. His voice is low, and a little hoarse. "Good?"

"Yeah, you?"

"Fucking done in," Jamie says, through a yawn. "Night, love."

Malcolm says, “Good night,” hears the phone click, and then lies in the darkness, alone, dishevelled, and strangely unable to move more than to do his trousers up, until dawn breaks in through the window.

Day six - Saturday

Officially, Malcolm has Saturdays off, but it’s no surprise to Jamie that there’s no answer when he calls the house at 10 a.m. There’s always something for Malcolm to do, and if he doesn’t get it done on Saturday there’s a good chance it’ll become a matter of national importance on Sunday, and then before you know it, it’s Monday again and the man hasn’t sat down for a meal or seen more of the inside of his house than the shower, and…

Jamie’s actually spoken more to Malcolm, on a personal level, this week than he has in many previous weeks. Work takes over everything. Jamie promised himself, a long time ago, that work would never become more important than family, and it’s a promise he’s kept.

Not that his brothers believe him. They want him to stay another week, they’ve got nights out planned, and next weekend they’re taking all the kids camping and kayaking, and doesn’t Jamie _get_ holiday time off? Isn’t he owed it? What’s the use of shagging the boss if you can’t even take a fortnight off when you want it?

Jamie brushes them off with excuses, but the truth is, he’s not certain he does want it. He wants to get back to London - to Malcolm, yes, but also to work. He’s got things he was in the middle of, work he can’t just pass off to someone else. The life he leads in London is what gives him definition. The government’s not just going to police itself, and Malcolm can’t be expected to function properly without him, right?

Still, there’s a couple of days left to go, and he spends Saturday morning organising a game of five-a-side with the kids and their wee aunty Laura, Jamie’s youngest sister - half-sister, really, the product of his dad’s mid-life crisis, but if you get down to that level of MacDonald family politics you’ll be at it forever.

The sun is out, and the grass is dry, and they’re using upturned plantpots for goalposts, Jamie at one end, and Laura at the other, with all the kids running about in between, trying their hardest to kick a green and white football either at their aunt or uncle, or over the fence into next door’s garden. Jasmine is keeping score, though there’s some debate over how accurate that score is. Not that it really matters. More important is the running, the kicking, the cheering from both the players and the spectators (aunts and uncles and grannies and cousins milling around the patio, poking at the BBQ, smoking, watching, chatting…) It’s falling over in the dirt and getting dog-piled, it’s the knee-to-ribs that Jamie has to rub better while the rest of the team has a juice break, it’s the dog trying to join in, and the rain setting in then clearing off again, it’s the mud and the laughter and -

Jamie’s just deflected a bloody good kick from wee Oscar when he notices a bit of a commotion among the folk out on the patio. He figures it must be someone new arriving, though he can’t imagine who - a neighbour, probably, or one of Mick’s mates come to see the baby. Either way, Oscar’s going for it again, and Jamie doesn’t have to pretend to miss this one by a mile. The kids cheer or groan depending whether or not Oscar is on their team (there’s been some confusion and side-switching, so Jamie’s lost track), and then Jamie picks up the ball and lobs it into the fray, and they’re off again.

He’s almost forgotten about the newcomer until he sees Laura, at the other end of their lawn-pitch and beyond the scuffle in between them, waving her arms at him and whistling. When she gets his attention, she points towards the patio.

And there, standing with Jamie’s mum and a couple of his brothers, with a bottle of lager in his hand, is Malcolm.

Jamie turns his attention back to the game, but there’s a grin on his face, a swell of excitement in his gut, and he yells “Free kick for my team!” causing several small children to practically throw themselves, and the ball, at aunty Laura.

Once she’s pulled herself out of the fray and wiped off most of the mud, Laura calls it a day, declares her own team the winners after that spectacular foul, and points out that Uncle Iain has got the BBQ going and everyone had better go and clean up for lunch.

Jamie trots over to the patio. Malcolm’s in jeans and an off-white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, about as casual as he ever gets, and he’s wearing his slightly nervous, but most genuine smile, a smile that wobbles, then evaporates when he realises that Jamie, covered from knees to hairline in mud, is going to hug him.

There’s no escape. Jamie clamps his arms around Malcolm and gives him a squeeze, to a chorus of good-natured cat-calling. Jamie lets go.

Malcolm says, “You’re a shit goalkeeper.”

"Gotta let the kids get some through. The fuck are you doing here?"

A shrug. “Got bored.”

"Liar."

Malcolm looks around at Jamie’s family, who are being remarkably tactful and giving them some space.

"Did you call your mum?" Jamie asks.

"What? No. What was that about?"

"We’re going to stay with her for Easter."

Malcolm bristles, his shoulders hunching up around his ears, but he doesn’t argue. He returns a little wave from Jamie’s mum.

"Come on," Jamie says, "I’ll introduce you to everyone."

_Monday Morning_

It ought to be the worse week of Malcolm’s life, making the front pages twice in a seven-day span, but he keeps his lips pursed and doesn’t say anything at all when his mum calls and tells him she’s getting today’s blurry iPhone photo from the front page of the _Mail_ framed too, and _why_ can’t he smile more often, he’d be much less intimidating if he just _smiled_.

He hangs up on her with barely a word, besides agreeing to make dessert Easter dinner, and glares at Jamie.

Jamie’s hiding behind the newspaper, but Malcolm can glare at him anyway because he’s on the front page again too.

"It’s just fucking _rude_ ,” Malcolm snaps.

Jamie rustles the paper as he turns the page, but doesn’t deign to respond.

"Fucking Kenyon. I’m going to call him."

"And say what?"

"I’ll tell him to report some real fucking news for a change."

Jamie peeks over the top of the paper. “It is news. It’s literally something that’s never happened before. Malcolm Tucker caught smiling.” He sounds smug, and vanishes again before Malcolm can throw anything at him.

He’s left to sit there, looking across the table at the slightly fuzzy shot of him and Jamie in the arrivals hall at Gatwick, Jamie shrugging his backpack onto his shoulder, Malcolm looking off to one side, and both of them, unconsciously, grinning like a pair of lunatics.

They’re not the main headline, but it’s bad enough, and the fat text above the photo reads _Has The Scourge Of Whitehall Found Happiness?_

It’s nobody else’s fucking business, but Malcolm is not going to let Jamie out of his sight again for a very long time.


	8. Mel/Jaimee - Malcolm/Jamie Rule 63

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sabotabby prompted me on tumblr when I asked for genderswap M/J prompts:  
> "Jaimee is witness to Mel verbally eviscerating a sexist MP and is completely turned on"

“Thanks, love, that’s bloody brilliant, I’m starving. Hey, maybe we should get you a French maid’s outfit, haha...”

 

A particularly diplomatic onlooker might say it wasn’t entirely Ben Swain’s fault. Mel is usually fairly immune to unthinking sexism, having got the hang of snot-nosed posh boys pretty early on in her career, and she’s generally got more important things to worry about than Oxbridge twerps who still have wet dreams about Nanny.

 

But _diplomatic_ has never been a term used to describe Jaimee, who would be quicker to label him an idiot who has it coming. As soon as Mel turns, snarling and spitting, “ _What the fuck did you just say to her?”_ at a suddenly very pale Ben, Jaimee stops typing and looks up from her Blackberry.

 

There’s a girl in the middle of it. Kaylee, Jaimee reckons, fairly new, makes tea, does a spot of cleaning, that sort of thing. She’s holding a tray of hot drinks, and Ben is clutching a mug in one hand, and a plate of biscuits in the other.

 

“It was a joke, I j-just,” he stutters.

 

Mel sneers at him. “You j-j-just nothing. I fucking _heard_ you, you enormous walking wankstain. You know what we should get you? A fucking jester’s outfit, except traditionally jesters had a lot of skill and respect, so maybe we should fucking shelve that idea, yeah? Maybe we should take one of those fucking joker hats with all the points, fill it with concrete and give you the world’s most fucking _hilarious_ triple colposcopy – don’t you fucking back away from me, pal, you’re not going fucking _anywhere_ until you apologise to Kaylee. Repeat after me – I’m so fucking sorry I’m a misogynistic fucking stretched-out fleshbag filled with cream and fucking olive oil and left out in the fucking sun too long. Fucking _say it_ before I twist your balls off – and that’s if I can fucking find them, _love_.”

 

In the silence that follows, Ben turns whiter than ever, the tray rattles in Kaylee’s trembling hands, and Jaimee squirms in her seat.

 

Ben appears to be weighing up his options and comparing the degree of humiliation involved in apologising to the tea girl in front of the entire, deathly quiet office, and the further abuse and degradation Mel is capable of inflicting on him if he refuses.

 

Eventually, just as Jaimee is wondering if Mel’s going to burst a blood vessel in her neck, Ben holds the plate out towards Kaylee. “Sorry,” he says. “Um, would you like a biscuit?”

 

Mel gives Kaylee one of her rare, lop-sided, but entirely genuine smiles.

 

“What do you reckon? Was that good enough for ya?”

 

Something happens in Kaylee’s face, her eyes widening and jaw setting firm as she looks up at Mel. _I feel ya, kid_ , Jaimee thinks. _She does that to you_.

 

“Almost,” she says.

 

“Aye, you’re right, I don’t think he quite sounded sorry enough. Maybe Mr Swain here needs a lesson in empathy. Give me the tray.”

 

Kaylee holds out the tray; Mel takes the tray; Ben has the tray thrust upon him.

 

“You’re tea boy for the day,” Mel snaps, in a voice that is not to be argued with. “Good luck remembering everyone’s orders. And if you want to know how fucking serious I am, give Ronald Pearson a call.”

 

Ben stands there, holding the tray of drinks, and gawping wordlessly at Mel.

 

“Who’s Ronald Pearson?” Kaylee asks.

 

Mel just winks at her, turns her back, and marches out of the office. Jaimee leaps to her feet, glad she’s not a man because she’s turned on and burning so hard she can barely stand, and scrambles after her, but pauses next to Kaylee and Ben.

 

“He was an MP back in the nineties. Handy Ron, people used to call him. _Used to_. Mel broke three of his fingers. Don’t think he grabbed any more arses after that.”

 

She flashes her shark-grin at Ben, and heads for the door after Mel.

 

She’s half-way along the passage up ahead, and Jaimee has to bite back a moan just at the sight of her retreating back. Mel’s tall, especially in heels, her mousy hair kept short and neat, though just long enough at the moment that she has it tied back in a small ponytail. Her height makes her look even slimmer than she is, bordering on skinny, a tightly-cinched belt giving her a waspish figure to go with her stinging tongue.

 

She is, right now, possibly the most powerful woman in Britain after Lizzie herself, but that’s not what turns Jaimee on. It’s more that she couldn’t be anything _other_ than the most powerful woman in Britain. She’s always been heading here, since before she even knew where Westminster was.

 

“Oi,” Jaimee shouts, snagging Mel’s elbow from behind. “You, me, girls’ bogs. Now.”

 

Mel rolls her eyes, but lets Jaimee drag her across the passage and through a door, which Jaimee locks behind them.

 

" _Fuck_ , I love you," Jaimee moans, shoving Mel back against the door and kissing her savagely. “I love every fucking thing about you.”

 

“I should bollock Ben more often,” Mel murmurs.

 

“Ron Pearson, eh?” Jamie says, between kissing her way along Mel’s long, pale neck. “Our first kiss, remember?”

 

“Aye, right after the cops finished cautioning me.”

 

“You are so fucking _hot_ when you’re making men’s bollocks retreat into their bodies in abject fucking terror.”

 

Jaimee goes for the belt around Mel’s waist, then undoes her jacket and untucks her blouse. She’s relieved Mel’s in a skirt today, because that’s about all the fumbling she can be bothered to do with clothing. She slides one hand up Mel’s thigh, and the other along her body, tickling her ribs and belly, rubbing a thumb over her nipple.

 

Sometimes, Mel won’t let it go any further at work. She’s too busy, or too concerned with getting caught, but today she just sighs as Jaimee’s hand moves between her legs, rubbing with a well-practiced pressure. She just wants to see Mel come, and feel it, and smell it... wants to make this amazing woman flush and writhe with pleasure. She goes straight for the big guns, sucking and nibbling Mel’s earlobe, rubbing hard with two fingers shoved through the leg-hole of her knickers, squeezing her breast with the other hand, and gasping half-formed obscenities in her ear. Mel’s wet and swollen, her clit hard, her breath short and fast as she thrusts against Jaimee’s hand, and Jaimee knows she’s close when her fingers grab painfully hard at Jaimee’s arm and shoulder.

 

Mel whines quietly as she comes, her back arching away from the wall, hips bucking, Jaimee meeting her need with a cupped palm and more rhythmic pressure. She can feel the deep throbbing and shuddering in Mel’s body, lets it guide her hand, telling her where she’s needed, and she stays with Mel right to the end.

 

As Mel sags back against the door, Jaimee slides her fingers a little deeper, getting them nice and slick. She hitches up her own skirt, shoves aside her knickers, squares her back against the wall, and thrusts two fingers in deep.

 

Jaimee’s orgasm hits her the moment she touches herself. She bites back a yelp, channels it into a long, low, throaty growl, working her fingers hard inside herself. A full-body shiver ripples through Mel as she watches. Jaimee grins at her, giving her own clit a little squeeze and making herself shudder.

 

If they were at home, they could carry on all night. Jamiee’s tongue flicks out against her lip – next thing she’d do would be to get Mel on her back, and just fucking _lick_ her until she screams.

 

But they aren’t at home, and Mel is doing her blouse back up.

 

"Next sexist pig I get,” says Mel, “I’m gonna fucking stab him. Just to see what you do.”

 

“Spontaneous combustion,” says Jaimee. “I’m pretty sure it’s spontaneous combustion.”

 

Mel grins. “Maybe no stabbing then. What if I make him literally shit himself?”

 

“Oh, spontaneous orgasm. Right then and there, no touching required.”

 

“Right, that’s what we’ll go for, then.”

 

Mel gives her a firm kiss on the cheek before she unlocks the door and leaves.

 

Jaimee thinks about Ben Swain’s big, saggy, terrified face as she trots back to the office. She’s suddenly in the mood for a nice, and very complicated, cup of coffee.


	9. Malcolm/Jamie, surprise party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon prompted me for Malcolm/Jamie + a surprise birthday party

“Ah, no,” says Malcolm. “Hello, but no, sorry, he’s not here. He’s out, doing whatever it is Jamie does when he’s not here, I don’t know, actually I thought he might be with you. Have you lost him? Because he was supposed to bring home teabags…”

The man on the doorstep is like a sort of bigger, older, rougher-looking Jamie. There isn’t much actual physical resemblance at all, but there’s something in the quick blue eyes, the grin, and the stance that’s geared to switch between offence and defence in an instant, and with barely any provocation. All little details that Malcolm has catalogued over the last few months, signs that suggest this fellow’s last name might well be MacDonald.

Anyway, Malcolm knows him. This is Cameron, one of the younger and smaller brothers, and behind him is (Malcolm has to think hard for a moment) Shelley, his eldest daughter. Malcolm has a pretty comprehensive mind-map of the MacDonald family tree, but the younger generations still confuse him at times.

“No,” says Cam, “I texted you, remember?”

Malcolm doesn’t remember, so he keeps his face blank and stony.

“We’re here about the party? Jamie is with Iain? Remember?”

“You text me.”

“Yeah, you read it, right? We’re planning a surprise party, here, on Saturday. I text you all the details.”

Malcolm’s phone is in the bottom drawer of his bedside table. He’s made a point of not looking at it for the last three days. They’ve got a house phone, and anyone who could ever need him urgently knows the number. 

He shrugs.

“A party for what?”

Cam and Shelley exchange a glance, which Malcolm is sure involves some heavy father/daughter judgement of this skinny grey family interloper.

“Uncle Jamie’s birthday, obviously,” says the girl. “We’ve brought all the stuff, it’s in the car. Balloons, and that. And presents. You’ll need to hide it all, right?”

Malcolm could tell them to fuck off, but he’s only a year into living with Jamie, and he’s actually enjoying this recent period they’ve entered, in the last few weeks, of something resembling domestic harmony and comfortable cohabitation. It’s nice. The fighting, which has always been a basic tenant of their relationship, has eased into something habitual and non-confrontational. Last week they even went on a dinner date. It’s normal, something Malcolm hasn’t entirely experienced in a long time, and it might not last as long as he’d like it to if he starts telling Jamie’s brothers to fuck off.  
So he lets them in, and makes tea, and watches as they squirrel colourful decorations, and scruffily wrapped presents, and platters for food, and CDs, and some weird lighting equipment, as they hide it all away at the back of Malcolm’s wardrobe and up in the attic.

As they sip tea and make sport-related noises, Malcolm scrolls on his (new and not entirely welcome) iPhone, apologises for missing their messages, and googles one or two things he suddenly quite urgently wants to know. And not a moment too soon, as it turns out.

“What time do you want us Saturday?” Cam asks.

Malcolm glances at the display again. “Three o’clock,” he says. “That should give us enough time, eh?”

***

Saturday rolls round, and, thanks to Cam, Malcolm is able to pretend he hadn’t forgotten Jamie’s birthday at all. When Jamie wakes up, he finds a little gift-wrapped box on the otherwise empty pillow beside him.

Malcolm doesn’t do sentimental. If he opens up and makes himself vulnerable, then the best and safest way for Jamie to show his appreciation is to quietly, but unfailingly, wear the thing (and holy fucking shitting bollocks, how much did that cost?) every single day for the rest of his life. He has his little moment of love-struck hyperventilation in the shower, then trots downstairs to find Malcolm on his second cup of coffee.

“Where’s mine?”

Malcolm shrugs. “In the pot.”

“Happy birthday Jamie?”

“Happy birthday, sweet.”

Jamie grins. He sits down with his coffee, and they spend one of those tiny little enternities just watching each other.

Malcolm puts an envelope on the table between them. Jamie reaches for it (it’s got his name written in Malcolm’s spiky handwriting, after all) but Malcolm puts two fingers on it, holds it there.

Jamie frowns, but absently touches his gift from earlier. Malcolm makes a point of paying no attention to it.

“There’s a surprise party later,” says Malcolm.

“Not much of a fucking surprise now, is it?”

Malcolm shrugs, but pushes the envelope towards Jamie. “Didnae say the surprise was for you, did I?. The surprise is for the the fifty people who’re gonnae turn up here this afternoon and find we’ve fucked off to the south of France for two weeks.”

***

The next time Malcolm looks at his phone, it’s ten o’clock in the evening and he’s just remembered to switch it off aeroplane mode. Jamie’s in the shower, singing something horrendous and indecipherable, and Malcolm is enjoying the warm breeze through the window of their quirky little villa. The whole place is done up in rustic white and lime green and orange, and the smells of Mediterranean cooking waft through on the breeze from the restaurant along the lane.

The whole set-up, along with a very affectionate, very horny Jamie, is enough that it’s only taken this one afternoon for Malcolm to relax and begin to forget about home.

That’s why the photograph in the email makes him bark with laughter.

His own doorstep, with their combined families variously sitting and standing in the rain, wearing expressions of mock-annoyance and anger mixed with genuine amusement. Holding one end of a “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” banner is Malcolm’s sister, and holding the other end is Cam, and looking supremely pissed-off and holding up a bit of cardboard with the word “UN-“ next to Megan is Jamie’s tiny wee mum. 

The email is from Cam, and the caption underneath the photo says, “happy birthday mate, your presents are on a plane to fuck knows where”.


	10. Fighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I prompted the wonderful alfa-arts for "Malcolm and Jamie fighting in their younger days" and received this masterpiece:  
> http://alfa-arts.tumblr.com/post/102312654486/younger-malcolm-and-jamie-fighting
> 
> This fic is to accompany it.

Malcolm makes Jamie do things.

Sometimes he drags Jamie into pubs and clubs or makes him read this book or that article and then talks incessantly about it later.

Other times, like the time they crouched beside hot rubber and gleaming black metal outside the home of the local candidate for the Conservative party, Malcolm hands him his father’s old-fashioned razor and, with one mischievous grin, he turns a good Catholic lad into a tyre-slashing political terrorist.

Malcolm makes Jamie feel things.

Okay, that’s not strictly true - Jamie’s always felt this way. He’s not slept well since he was a small child, lying awake through the wee hours as his brain fizzed and buzzed with impulsion and anger and need and frustration and… And, well, he thought the church was his answer. He thought it could channel his passions into something constructive, but the old priests’ faces melt into alarm and concern when he tells them about it. When he feels frustrated, they tell him he ought to pray.

Malcolm says that he agrees; when one feels the  need , the frustrated lust for  something , one should definitely get down on one’s knees.

What Malcolm really does - perhaps unintentionally but probably not - is fit himself into Jamie’s life like a dispersive prism that catches Jamie’s full intensity and splits it and redirects it, makes it into something beautiful, and he can never resist following the lure of it to the other side.

Jamie’s anger is fucking  righteous , he knows that’s true because Malcolm said so, and it’s still just as fucking true when it’s directed at Malcolm himself.

In the last ten minutes, since Malcolm’s snide remark and Jamie’s reflexive retaliation, that righteous anger has more or less trashed the living room of the flat joint-rented by Malcolm and his own sister (mercifully absent). Beer cans scattered, fish dinner spilt across the floor, and carpet stained, though not for the first time in its life, with grease, cheap scotch, and blood.

Malcolm’s head had bounced rather pleasingly off the corner of the table. 

They’re on the floor, Malcolm’s eyes swimming in and out of focus but his snarl as sharp as ever. Jamie’s jumper is torn, there’s scratch-marks on his face, but the blood on him isn’t his own, and he reckons he’s won when Malcolm tries to buck him off and rather than being thrown, Jamie gets a fistful of Malcolm’s shirt, shoves him back down on the carpet, and pins him.

Malcolm rallies beautifully but ineffectually, tries to roll them over, but Jamie pushes him firmly against the floor and gets a leg between Malcolm's thighs, his knee right up against Malcolm's balls in what's intended to be a threat of gonadal violence if Malcolm refuses to accept defeat. 

Beneath him, Malcolm struggles, eternally unable to retreat or withdraw from a fight. One of his hands scratches at the fabric of Jamie’s jumper, almost stroking, but then he’s got a handful of it, and Jamie has to suck in a lungful of air before his vision starts to go fuzzy. Jamie shifts his weight to his left knee, the one between Malcolm’s legs, and leans forward. Malcolm’s grazed knuckles flex, and he tugs Jamie’s jumper, pulling him down, daring him.

In twelve years’ time, in another city and to a background of Debussy’s 1st Arabesque played by a girl with a diamond the size of a scotch egg on her finger, Jamie will look across a room filled with tuxedos and evening gowns, and he’ll watch Malcolm flirt with the PM’s wife as he plants ripe little seeds in her head, and he’ll remember tonight. Tonight is where it all begins.

Jamie slides his hand up Malcolm’s chest and around his throat, cupping his neck, shivering as a little growl of  something rumbles through Malcolm’s chest. As the fight turns into something else, Malcolm changes too, softens, stills, his panting breath no longer harsh through clenched teeth but hot through parted lips.

Jamie bites his chin, teeth scraping rough stubble, and Malcolm -  oh fucking Christ help \- groans and clutches at Jamie’s jumper. When Jamie kisses him, Malcolm closes his eyes, opens his mouth, lets Jamie kiss as deep and hard as he likes, and just when Jamie thinks he’s got total control of the clinch, Malcolm brings his knees together, trapping Jamie’s thigh between them. 

They roll a couple of times. Malcolm takes control as if his only goal is to relinquish it again, but fuck it, Jamie doesn’t care. Every time he pushes Malcolm back down, those green eyes widen with lust, until again Malcolm distracts him, grabs him, hauls him onto his back, and Jamie’s got endless plans for flipping Malcolm over and having his way with him, but this time Malcolm shoves him down with one firm palm, licks Jamie’s exposed belly button, and unzips him with one hand.

Malcolm’s fingers are long, and firm, and clever, but not nearly as clever as his tongue. A thick wad of cold fury clogs Jamie’s throat - how many men has Malc done this to? Who are they and fucking where are they so Jamie can rip their fucking balls off? He wants to fucking break something again. He grabs Malcolm’s hair and pulls him off his cock, snarling something about how Malcolm makes him fucking  feel , but Malcolm’s lips are red, his mouth open, a pulse throbbing in his neck, and here’s a whole new world of sparkling possibilities, the things Jamie can make Malcolm feel, the things he can make him do…

Malcolm tugs out of Jamie’s grip, rolls away, apparently so he can sprawl out with his shirt torn open to the navel, erection straining the seam of his trousers, staring at Jamie as if he’s never really looked at him before. Jamie can’t move fast enough; he pounces Malcolm, kisses him, grinds him down against the threadbare carpet until Malcolm’s quiet whimpers become strained with something horrible, something Jamie recognises as pain just in time to avoid the elbow Malcolm jabs at his ribs. He bats Malcolm’s arm aside and unzips him, pulls his trousers down off his hips, swallows Malcolm’s sigh of relief with an open mouth as they fall together again. 

Among the things Jamie can make Malcolm do; he can make him come, hard, in his pants as he writhes beneath Jamie on the floor. Malcolm’s muscles clench, his thighs tighten around Jamie’s hips, and Jamie’s smug moment is over as he loses it. Malcolm - the manipulative, theatrical bastard - squeezes Jamie’s arse and bucks up against him, his cock still hard, hot, and rubbing against Jamie’s belly. Jamie drops his head to Malcolm’s chest, his whole body shaking as he comes, a litany of nonsense words and cursing growled against Malcolm’s skin until Jamie’s throat dies up and he feels as if he’s been turned inside-out and shaken until he’s empty.

Malcolm, submissive and wanton and needy Malcolm, tells Jamie to come to bed with him. 

**  
Jamie will always go. **


End file.
